


blame it on...

by WattStalf



Series: it's just piss [84]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Humiliation, Implied Sexual Content, Kinktober 2019, Omorashi, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-05 22:40:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21216212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WattStalf/pseuds/WattStalf
Summary: Truly, Seteth can blame none of his failing tonight on anyone but himself.





	blame it on...

**Author's Note:**

> My final kinktober fic, which, you know, had to be more desperation and wetting because I'm a piss fiend. I've had this idea for a while, so I'm glad I could finally write it.

Seteth is a few drinks in, completely sober, and miserable as hell. How he got Manuela to talk him into this, he isn’t sure; perhaps he really thought, if he came along with her and some of the other knights and faculty, then he might have been able to prevent trouble from brewing, or maybe even kept the night completely tame, just with his presence. How foolish he was.

Once she let slip to the group- consisting of Catherine, Shamir, Alois, Manuela herself, and their newest professor, likely drug along by either Manuela or Alois- that he once claimed alcohol hardly had an effect on him, that was the end of that. No one quite believed it, and, though Shamir and Byleth both mostly kept quiet and to themselves, the goading from Catherine, Alois, and Manuela was enough to get him roped into proving himself.

Maybe he’s just lonely, maybe he really is too stiff and enjoys being able to spend time with friends, maybe that’s the reason he goes along with their little challenge. Whatever the case, he’s had his fair share of drinks, and while most of the others are showing their own drunkenness, he is hardly feeling anything.

From the alcohol, at least. The drinks themselves have had quite the effect on him, just in a different way than what everyone wanted to see. And while having a chance to see how the others act under the influence is...educational, to say the least, he finds he is less entertained by the antics of the more rowdy of the bunch, as he is more distracted by a rapidly growing pressure in his bladder.

By now, he should probably have excused himself to take care of things, but he hasn’t yet, as every time he has started to say something, Manuela has taunted him in some way, growing more brazen in her intoxicated state, and he’s found himself in an argument with her, never mentioning his urgent need. Catherine and Alois howl with laughter and try to weigh in on these arguments, while Shamir leans in with more interest than she may have shown sober, and Seteth finds himself completely trapped in the situation.

The only other person present that doesn’t seem to be feeling the alcohol is Byleth, but Seteth hasn’t noticed her drinking as much as he and the others, and, what’s more, it wouldn’t surprise him if she had a fairly high tolerance, just knowing her father’s habits. He’s fairly certain that isn’t actually a genetic trait, but there’s no way to know for sure, and if another member of the faculty were present, Seteth could only imagine how he would try to relate that topic back to Crestology, if the question were brought up.

Not that he would have a chance to bring it up in the first place, with the way Manuela continues to provoke him into going into more and more long winded lectures. And he keeps drinking as he goes, the pressure from the group too much to resist at times, and maybe, just maybe, he might be loosening up a little bit.

He would scarcely call himself  _ drunk _ , but he’s feeling  _ something _ besides a burning need to piss right now, and that part isn’t nearly so bad. This is what people are after when they drink, he thinks, but then they take it too far, some until they black out, present company very much included. That’s something he could never understand, but this isn’t so bad, and he’s able to understand that a little bit better.

The problem is, it takes so much more effort to get to this point for him, and while everyone else can enjoy getting absolutely shitfaced off much less, in order to even get tipsy, he has to drink quite a bit, resulting in his bladder feeling swollen and on the verge of bursting should anyone press him too hard. Seteth is absolutely miserable, and that misery far outweighs any of the supposed joys of alcohol.

It’s been a very long night, and he would very much like a chance to excuse him, but it seems like every chance he has, he ends up distracted and off on another tangent, until things finally start to wind down. Or, rather, until Catherine blacks out at the table, and Shamir, swaying as she stands, decides it’s time to take her back to her room. Alois offers his assistance, only for Manuela to demand he help  _ her _ instead, and indeed, she looks on the verge of blacking out herself.

With that, the faculty night of drinking comes to an abrupt close, and Seteth rises, bidding Byleth goodnight before making his exit. Oridinarily, he would have offered to escort her back to her room, as would be expected of both a man dealing with a woman alone, as well as her senior in the monastery. But he knows she can handle herself, perhaps better than most of his company tonight, and either way, he does not look forward to the painful walk back, and would rather not share that with any company.

He does regret not having the chance to talk to her more, since they barely have tonight, and he tries to tell himself that that is only because he is her senior and looks after her, and not for any other reason.

Each step is like agony on his swollen bladder, and his walk is slow and stiff, as he tries to stop anything from spilling over. He feels like he’s mere seconds away from completely pissing himself, but he presses on, and still manages to keep his bladder in check all the while. The alcohol is no longer doing him any favors, and any pleasantness he may have felt before has been overwhelmed by the absolute agony of having to hold back this veritable flood.

Fortunately, he has some privacy while he walks, and, in the back of his mind, he knows that he could probably piss against a wall without ever being caught, and solve the problem then and there. But no, he would never! If he  _ were _ to be caught doing something like that, he would never live it down, and either way, he has far too much pride to resort to something so base and disgusting. But at the very least, the privacy does grant him the freedom to pause in his steps, squeezing his thighs together as he attempts to regain his composure and prevent any leaks.

Gritting his teeth, Seteth urges himself to keep going, and to ignore any temptation there may be to do something disgraceful. No matter how bad it may get, he won’t give in to that temptation, nor will he lose the battle with his bladder. He can’t even  _ remember _ the last time he lost control of himself; a distant childhood memory, completely lost to time. Certainly, he isn’t going to start doing that again  _ now _ , no matter how bad it may be.

But it is so, so bad, and no matter how he might  _ tell _ himself that he won’t lose, that doesn’t mean that that’s the case, and a voice in his mind tells him that there’s a much greater chance of that happening than he wants to admit. It hurts so badly, and no matter how he fights to prevent all leaks, there are some that find their way through, and he is left frozen in place as a hot spurt of liquid soaks into fabric, before he can stem the flow.

This is getting to be too much for him, and still he staggers forward, each step becoming more and more like torture, until he can’t take a single step without another spurt leaking out of him, leaving his face flushed and his heart racing. What good is making it if he’s barely made at all, with his clothes so soaked through that it will look as though he’s pissed himself either way? 

More and more, the idea of quickly and discreetly taking care of business here seems more appealing. Perhaps he could even wander off, wander back, “happen to discover” the mess, and clean it up himself, while pretending like he’s doing it out of a sense of duty. No one would ever suspect him of doing something like that, so he would certainly be in the clear, so long as no one actually saw him do it.

He is straining himself so much now that he is near tears, and he is just about to give in to the temptation when he suddenly doubles over, jamming a hand between his legs to stop a particularly powerful leak from turning into anything more. Humiliation washes over him as he is forced to grab at his cock through his clothing just to keep his bladder in check, and he is so grateful that there is no one there to see him. Now, he knows that he has no choice, and so, struggling to straighten up, he resolves himself to his fate.

That is when the woman who has been following him accidentally makes her presence known with one sharp breath, and Seteth realizes with a sudden horror that he isn’t alone.

“Wh-who’s there?” he calls out, his voice painfully strained, almost breaking with his words. He turns just as Byleth steps out of the shadows, her face slightly flushed, her eyes aimed at where his hand was just seconds before. Seteth shifts uncomfortably, another leak escaping as he fights the urge to do anything to make holding it easier on him.

“I-I...was just walking back,” she says. “We were going the same way, so...but you seemed like you wanted to be alone, because, well…” She’s stumbling over her words, sounding considerate of his plight, but Seteth wasn’t born yesterday, and there’s something to the way she’s breathing that implies something more.

Or perhaps that’s the wishful thinking or the alcohol allowing wishful thinking, and allowing him to even admit to himself the slight possibility that he might have some wishful thinking, where the young professor is concerned.

And, in the end, letting his mind wander to Byleth is what proves to be his undoing. He couldn’t afford to spare any of his concentration on anything else, much less matters of the heart that he’s far better off ignoring indefinitely, and his hand shoots between his legs once again, though to know avail. His knees buckle and he doubles over again, and nothing he does is able to stop it from happening this time.

With Byleth as an audience, Seteth has no choice but to piss himself completely, his strained bladder finally at its limits. This spurt turns into much more than that, a powerful torrent bursting forth, soaking through his clothes in no time at all, showing no sign of slowing as the hot liquid snakes down his leg, puddling at his feet with a loud hiss, made all the louder by the silence in the air. Seteth can’t figure out where to look, while Byleth seems unable to stop staring at him.

She watches him until it’s all over, watching the puddle grow, watching the darkening of his clothes, watching the way he blushes and witnessing every last, horrid second of his humiliation, showing him no mercy in the process. And even the alcohol could not soften this blow; Seteth is not sure that his ego will ever recover from something like this.

He is frozen in place for some time after his aching bladder has fully emptied itself, with no idea what he is meant to do now. His clothes soon start to grow cold as the urine cools, and still, he doesn’t know what to do. Byleth just stands there, like she has from the beginning, fidgeting quite a bit herself, her breath uneven, and...wait.

Wishful thinking or alcohol or not, there is no way to write off what it is that she’s doing. Her thighs are moving in a way similar to his own when he was still fighting, but quite different at the same time, with a different goal in mind that he can see to the heart of, and suddenly, while not understanding at all, he understands. There is no real way  _ to _ understand this, he thinks, but, for whatever reason, Byleth is sexually aroused right now, right after watching him piss himself, which can only mean that watching that is what did it for her.

Why that is, Seteth cannot for the life of him fathom, but there is no denying the facts laid out in front of him, and with that so plainly on display, he has to admit that, if Byleth wants him...well, he’s hardly opposed to the idea. His denial has held up just fine up until now, but there’s the damned alcohol to account for- which he’s using as quite the excuse, considering how little it actually does for him- and her own rather shameless display, and it is simply too hard to keep running from.

Of course he’s attracted to the new professor, he has been for some time, and never felt it appropriate to pursue for a number of reasons, but now, here she is, showing that that might not be so one sided, and he…

“Professor,” he finally says, his voice cracking, his throat suddenly dry. “What are you...doing?”

“I-I’m sorry!” she suddenly says, snapped out of her daze. “Like I said, I was just going this way, and you seemed kind of distressed, and I didn’t mean to intrude, but…”

“Byleth,” he says in a more firm tone of voice, stopping her short. “Be honest. I don’t just mean what you’re doing  _ here _ . I want to know what you’re doing with me, why you followed me, and why you’re still staring at me, why you’re...well.” He coughs, hoping that he’s gotten the point across.

And, judging by the way her face goes scarlet, he has. “W-well, that...that’s...I...I don’t know,” she confesses, finally looking away from him so that she can stare pointedly at the ground. “I just...ever since we met, I’ve been...and now, I just...I don’t know.”

She isn’t saying much of anything, but she’s saying enough, and Seteth takes a few steps forward, and then a few more, closing the distance between them as Byleth does not move back. Even worse than relieving himself out in the open is engaging in any sort of physical contact with a single woman, and one so much younger than himself, and he can’t even blame the alcohol for his self-control slipping, he knows that damn well.

But he is the one to kiss her first, and she doesn’t resist at all, melting into it. He hasn’t kissed anyone, or been kissed in so long, and the chill from his wet clothes is not enough to hide the warmth coming from her body as she presses close to him. Seteth is a little ashamed of how quickly he’s hard, his erection pressing against her rather noticeably, but Byleth doesn’t seem to have any complaints about that, only pushing closer to him, grinding against him until the contact is unbearable and he has to break the kiss, pulling away before he humiliates him for the second time tonight.

It’s been far too long since he’s touched or been touched, and if he isn’t careful…

“I want…” she starts, and he holds up a hand to silence her.

She gives him a guilty, apologetic look, and he replies quickly, “It’s not that, I...want you as well, I...you have no idea what you’ve done to me. I hardly understand it myself, but...well, if anything is to happen between us, it can’t be here, where someone might see us. I’ve already disgraced myself enough tonight, and, what’s more...I think you deserve something a little more comfortable for your first time.”

Byleth opens her mouth, looking ready protest at first, but must realize that it’s futile. Whether arguing them changing locations or arguing that this isn’t her first time, she knows that he’s right on both accounts, and, rather than saying anything, simply nods.

“Then let us hurry,” he says. “I should probably take care of the mess, but...well, I’m sure there will be time for that later.”

And, with nothing else to blame it on but his own loneliness and impulsiveness getting the best of him, he takes Byleth’s hand to lead her back to his room quickly, so that no one else will see them.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested in my writing updates, please follow my fanfiction twitter @WattStalf  



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